


So Much That I Wanna Do

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Gags, M/M, Multi, Pining, Public Use, X/Tony ships other than Steve/Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: Steve wants Tony, but Tony has a boyfriend.  Then Tony's boyfriend talks him into a Public Use fantasy, and it's alittletoo tempting for Steve to resist.Based on this prompt:  Tony is left out for public use, Steve takes his turn.





	So Much That I Wanna Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cap Iron Man Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cap+Iron+Man+Community).



> Thank you to whoever left this lovely prompt! (Tony is left out for public use, Steve takes his turn.) I had... a little too much fun writing this disaster! I set it in the MCU because that's what I really know, but if you wanted to put this in, say, Avengers Assemble, that's not beyond the realm of possibility. 
> 
> Warnings are explained in the end notes if you're worried about it. Many thanks to Cluegirl for beta-ing this mess!

The Avengers don’t go to all that many events together, really; it’s not like it's every week, or anything.  But the timing has worked out so that if Tony’s dating someone for more than a week, the Avengers stand a pretty good shot of meeting that person.

Tony doesn’t always date people for more than a week.  There was a whirlwind of one-time-onlies in the wake of Tony’s breakup with Pepper, a neverending stream of beautiful, vapid people who came on Monday and left Tuesday morning.  Steve had hoped, seeing the men mixed in with the women...  But by the time Steve had worked up his nerve to ask, there had been someone else.  And then, two weeks later, someone _else._ And then, a month after that, Jared.

Tony has been dating Jared for nearly two months, now, and Steve fucking _hates_ him.

(Jared, not Tony.)  

There’s nothing _wrong_ with Jared Royce—not anything obvious, anyway.  He’s intelligent and good-looking.  He works behind the scenes in the movies, which is good for him because Steve’s pretty sure if he worked in tech, Tony would get bored and wander off; Jared’s smart, sure, but not _Tony_ level smart.  Jared is blond and broad, with a very Dutch sort of face.  He plays videogames on a competitive level, drives very expensive cars, and wears excellent clothes.

Steve has always suspected, though, that what Tony _really_ gets from Jared is the sex.  Athletic, dirty, downright kinky sex.  A lot of it.  Because whenever Jared shows up at the Tower—which he does, unfortunately, at least twice a week, and usually more; apparently, his crew is filming something in the area—he and Tony disappear upstairs to Tony’s bedroom, and Tony isn’t seen again until the next day.  At which point, he usually has an awfully smug expression and a lot of bruises.

Sometimes, they take other people upstairs with them, too.  At first Steve thought that meant it _wasn’t_ a sex thing, but then the bruises and the smug expression showed right back up again, and a couple of times the young man or lady came to breakfast the next morning.

Steve makes a good effort at gritting the enamel right off his teeth, those days.  He really, really, _really_ hates Jared.

So when JARVIS announces that Steve has a message from Jared—at nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, no less, while Steve is doing the _NY Times_ crossword—it’s... surprising.

And unwelcome.

But mostly surprising.

Not nearly so surprising as what the message _says,_ though.

“It’s a _what?”_

“Jared has described it as a _party,_ Captain.”

“That’s not what you said the first time.”

“My apologies, Captain, you seemed distressed by my use of the word _gangbang.”_

Well, that’s fair; he _is_ distressed.  “I just... what?  Tony’s doing what, now?”

Jarvis is silent for a minute, likely the effect of several processes running simultaneously to measure the effect of his words.  It isn’t exactly a pause for thought, but it comes close enough.  “Mister Royce and Mister Stark have agreed to a scene.”  

From the way Jarvis says _scene,_ Steve is pretty sure he isn’t talking about some kind of a theatrical production.

Jarvis explains, and Steve grows slowly more and more incredulous.  Tony has agreed to be stripped, tied up, blindfolded, and otherwise restrained from looking around.  He’s going to be locked in a room, and certain people—people selected by Jared, not Tony; Tony doesn’t get to choose—will be invited to go in with him.

“How many?”

“The initial suggestion was closer to thirty, allowing that some of them will be out of town or otherwise unavailable.  Mister Stark suggested a smaller number, and after some bargaining, a total of thirteen invitations have been issued, including yours—but only to people already known to both Mister Stark and Mister Royce.”

Anyone who gets an invite is welcome to _use_ Tony.  Sexually.  As long as they want, and in whatever manner they choose.

“Holy shit.”

For a minute, the sheer _filth_ of it blows Steve away.  The idea that just _anybody_ can walk in there, stick their dick in Tony and ride his ass, ride his face, climb on top and fuck themselves on his cock…  Steve imagines that it’s _him,_ and for a second he’s so jealous he can’t even see.  Tony’s hole would be tight around him, but Tony’s muscles would be relaxed under his touch, Tony himself pliant and happy.  Steve imagines Tony looking up at him, a gag in his mouth keeping him from speaking but there would be warmth and love in his eyes—

No, JARVIS said Tony would be blindfolded, didn’t he?  

Just like that, the fantasy soap bubble pops, but in its wake Steve is left with a second realization.  Namely: _he has an invitation._

Steve’s circulatory system is perfect, but his heart still pounds heavily in his chest.  

“So Tony knows I’m invited?  He’s okay with me being there?”  

Jarvis sorts through permutations of possible answers again.  “He has no reason _not_ to believe that you would be invited, and so I must agree that he _has_ agreed to your participation.”

That isn’t how that works at all.  People have blind spots, they have associations and assumptions.  If Jarvis thinks Tony wasn’t planning to invite Steve, then he _didn’t_ invite Steve, even if he has said it’s alright for Steve to be there.  But Steve isn’t sure he’s strong enough to decline the invitation, even knowing that.

“Who all did Tony blacklist, anyway?”

“Miss Potts,” JARVIS answers promptly.  “And Justin Hammer.”  

Justin Hammer isn’t even out of _jail_ right now.

 

* * *

 

He can’t possibly go.  He _can’t._ It would be a betrayal of trust, for one thing; Steve knows perfectly well what JARVIS’s circumlocutions mean, and he knows Tony doesn’t expect him to be there.  Showing up anyway... well, it’s a rotten thing to do, is what it is.  Not the kind of thing he’s supposed to stand for, at all.

But half an hour later, he nevertheless finds himself exiting the elevator on the public floor of the penthouse, his steps pacing unerringly towards one specific room.

In Steve’s day, they would have called it a sitting room; Steve’s not sure what they call it these days because it’s too small to be a library, but it has a couple of armchairs and some tiny coffee tables, and an awful lot of bookshelves.  Not the kind of place where _he_ would think to hold an orgy—but then, he certainly isn’t Tony Stark.

 

* * *

 

He almost backs out when he sees the sign on the door; almost turns around and heads right back into the elevator again.  But the elevator doors are already closing, and as far as pretending he isn’t tempted went, well... That ship has already sailed, hasn’t it?

The sign on the door is a plain sheet of printer paper, listing the rules in what even Steve can recognize as a default font.

  1. No talking
  2. No kissing
  3. No mentioning the game to Tony’s face once you are out of the room
  4. ABSOLUTELY NO recording devices (note: this rule will enforced by EMP if necessary)
  5. Play is by invitation only; if you don’t have one, the door won’t open.



and

  1. No removing bonds or blindfold; if you have to take a plug out or gag off, put it back when you’re finished.



Steve reads the list through again before his gaze catches on the first item: _No talking._ Taken in combination with the others—his heart pounds in his chest, and his mouth goes suddenly dry—it means that Tony will have no idea who he is.  No idea who any of the strangers using his body are.

No reason for Tony to tell him no, since he agreed to this in the first place.

No reason for him to hate Steve when all of this is done.

It’s a relief, to be honest, soothing a lot of Steve’s quibbles.  If Steve were able to just... _ask..._ then he would have done so long ago.  This is...  Well, it’s a lot less pressure.

It’s also undeniably dodgy, and he feels a wash of shame as he really thinks about that, taking a few seconds to look it full-square on in the face and just _own_ it.  He can’t pretend that this is the best way to go about this; the _best_ way to go about it would probably involve flowers, and nice clothes, and all those things he was so relieved to not have to deal with.  _This...  This_ is not that.   _This_ is fucking sordid, frankly, but...

It’s _Tony._

And Tony is _amazing—_ has always been amazing—and also is dating someone else (even if Steve can’t particularly _stand_ Jared), and...

Steve kind of suspects that his _real_ reason for avoiding the... the _right way_ of doing this—the reason he dithered so long the last time Tony was single that Tony wound up not-single again before he could work up his nerve—would sound specious to anybody else, but he’s still pretty sure he’s not _good enough_ for Tony.  Not really.  And if this will let him reach out and take that one little piece, that one little slice of the pie he’s been drooling over for the better part of a year, well... he’ll take it.

So he does.

He pulls up the invitation text on his phone just in case he needs it and rests his hand on the doorknob.  He’s not sure who he would show the invite to, but it must be JARVIS and he must see it because the knob turns easily under his hand.  Steve pushes the door open and steps through.

His breath freezes in his throat.

Tony is spread out in front of him like a feast, tied all up like a perfectly-roasted goose.  His legs are folded in two, tied with maroon-colored ropes, and spread; the ropes, Steve sees, pin them out like butterflies’ wings, and are anchored the base of an ottoman, Tony’s skin warmly contrasting against chocolate-colored leather.  The footstool is just large enough that there’s room to plant knees on either side of Tony’s head, while the relevant portions of Tony’s anatomy—his head, his ass—fall just over either end.  He’s face up—because of the arc reactor, Steve realizes after a second of staring—and his arms are at his sides, tied and pinned underneath his legs like a road under an overpass. 

His ass, pointed towards Steve, is plugged with a large dildo—very large, to Steve’s eye, but Steve isn’t exactly an expert on these things.  The dildo is luridly orange, cast from a mold in a style which includes the balls, and those balls are holding it secured outside Tony’s body; otherwise, the twitches of Tony’s anal muscles, so fierce Steve can see them from the doorway, would be pulling it in. 

Steve hadn’t even realized this was a possibility, but it looks there’s a plug in Tony’s _cock,_ too.  It’s a slim metal contraption, gold plated, with a ring running around under Tony’s dark, leaking cockhead.  Tony’s throat is encircled by a collar, maroon leather and gold.  The door said he would be blindfolded, and Steve is inclined to believe he still is, but he can’t really see because Natasha is already there, sitting on Tony’s face. 

She’s kneeling on the ottoman with one knee, the other foot planted on the floor.  She’s facing Steve, her knees spread enough to the side that Steve can see—oh, God—that Tony is working her with his mouth, tilting his head up to be able to reach her with his tongue, sucking at her folds like they’re the only thing thing he’s going to get to drink all week.  Natasha is, for once, sagging, one hand down on the soft leather to support herself and her hair falling into her eyes, straggly with sweat.  There’s something odd about her, Steve thinks— _other_ than the circumstance and her being there, he means, and he can’t exactly throw stones on that account, can he?—but after a moment, he realizes what it is.

It’s her _posture._  She’s _relaxed,_ of all things.  It’s the first time he’s ever really seen her that way. 

It hits him, low and hard, a fist to the solar plexus: she’s so relaxed because she’s just _come,_ come on Tony’s mouth, pleasure flooding through her and Tony doesn’t even know who she _is._ It’s dark and perverse and Steve shudders, more turned on and jealous than he can ever remember being.

Natasha’s harsh panting mingles with Tony’s, and with the needy, eager sounds he’s making, echoing through the small room.

She’s looking at Steve, now.  Her eyes are full of laughter, happy and a little cruel, both at the same time.  Steve flushes, barely holds himself back from shuffling his feet...  He opens his mouth, but remembers the _no talking_ rule barely in time and shuts it again. 

Nat raises one eyebrow at him and flashes a tiny little grin, foxlike—not even enough for her dimples to show.  She shifts her weight backwards and stands, casually re-fastening Tony’s gag (he has a _gag!)_ and pulling down her skirt.

That last bit gives Steve pause, because Natasha does not wear skirts.  Not unless forced, anyway, usually by a cover.  So why would she... for _this...?_

Except, a second later, he spots the obvious: it _is_ for a cover.  She’s playing a _role._

He... probably should have thought of that himself, actually.

She claps him bracingly on the shoulder as she passes, one "bro" to another, and her grin is a challenge.  Steve flips her off, and she reaches down, popping the top button of his fly.

And then she’s gone.  It’s just Steve and Tony, now, and Steve almost turns around and leaves right after her, heading out the door in a hurry and an excess of nerves. 

It’s the condoms that stop him.

They’re in a jar, sitting on a coffee table not far from Tony’s ribs, just far enough away that Tony can’t knock them over no matter how he thrashes.  The jar is about the size of the kind you get pickles in: a gallon, with a wide mouth, uncovered by a lid.  There is nothing in the jar but condoms, and it is almost entirely full.

A sign on the front encourages him filthily to, “Take One!”

Steve finds himself moving forward before he even thinks about it, heart beating hard in his throat.  He slows when he comes close to the footstool, continuing his path in a circle around Tony rather than reaching for the jar.  On the table, Tony flops his head from side to side, obviously following his movement by sound but having no way to know who he is.  He’s wearing a bluetooth headset, small and incongruous given everything else, and Steve realizes that this is what fucking _Jared_ gets out all this: he gets to listen to Tony humiliated and falling apart. 

The blindfold covers Tony’s eyes completely; the gag, Steve sees, is a ring, not a ball, sitting inside of Tony’s teeth and holding his jaws apart.  Drool drips down his face, mingling with the smears of Natasha’s fluids.   _A man with a smaller dick than mine could fuck his throat right through that,_ Steve thinks, and then immediately experiences a wave of deep, _deep_ shame at the thought.

There’s a large pump-bottle of lube on the opposite side of Tony from the condoms.  Steve stops, pausing between the lube and the base of the table, studying Tony.

He’s not really going to do this, is he?  

But if he _doesn’t_ do this, when will he ever get another chance?  Steve has had a couple chances so far, and he’s missed them all; he doesn’t want to do it again.

Moving briskly now, Steve reaches across Tony, using his long wingspan to dip his hand into the almost-full jar and snag a condom.  He opens it as he moves, dropping the prophylactic out into his palm and opening the top button of his jeans, then the second, third and fourth, until his cock is exposed, jutting out between his flies, hard enough to pound diamonds and leaking at the tip.  The buttons make soft, fabric-y popping sounds as they come loose, and Tony shudders and thrashes in his bonds as they sound.

Steve’s hand is shaking minutely as he rolls the condom on; a pumpful of lube feels so damn good around himself that he almost comes right there.  Tony’s frantic by the time Steve has finished coating himself, but he goes completely still when Steve touched the dildo. 

Steve takes the large fake cock out gently, trying to be as cautious as he would want Tony to be with him.  He bites his lip, but the low noise of desire emerges from his throat anyway; he throttles it back and brushes his thumb gently across the stretched rim of Tony’s hole as the dildo reaches the largest point of its head in his channel.

Tony makes a noise as Steve touches him; Steve almost jumps.  It’s a needy noise, low in Tony’s throat, something like a please.  It’s the first sound besides panting that Steve has heard Tony make, and it lights a fire inside him, a mingling rush of _yes_ and _this_ and _let me take you._ He growls, low in his throat, in answer, and Tony responds with a moan, letting his head hang loose over the end of the ottoman, his throat totally exposed.

Steve presses one hand comfortingly on Tony’s stomach, south of the reactor but still north enough that he’s not touching anything that wouldn’t be shown off by a crop top.  He touches Tony’s rim gently with the fingers of his other hand, soothing what he imagines must be the burn from the plug.  Mid-pitched noises, a little too low for Steve to properly call them whimpers, pour from Tony’s throat as Steve tugs softly as the puffy ring, stretching Tony out.  He would hate to _hurt_ him, after all. 

He swallows and hesitates one last time before it’s too late, covering his dithers by grabbing more slick and slowly re-fingering Tony until he’s satisfied with the amount of lube.  He’s sure fucking _Jared_ must have done some of this, but it doesn’t hurt to check, after all, and there really _hadn’t_ been as much lube on that dildo plug as he would have liked, and... 

Eventually, though, Tony is loose and wet enough to hold a surfing competition, and there really aren’t any more ways to stall.  Swallowing, Steve moves forward, raising his dick to Tony’s entrance.  He had softened slightly while fingering Tony, but this moment, now, standing between Tony’s legs getting ready to push forward...  It’s enough to get him rock-hard again, and then some. 

Tony cries out around the gag when Steve’s cockhead touches him, head jerking against the table enough to indicate need.  It sends an ache of shock through Steve, seeing Tony so hungry for him.  He imagines for a second that Tony knows who he is, that it’s _him,_ and not just a good-sized dick, that Tony wants so badly, and that does it. 

He pushes slowly, _slowly_ forward.

He’s not a small man, not _anywhere,_ and Tony lets out a loud groan around the gag at the size, but pressure wins and he eases forward into Tony.  Tony’s gasping beneath him on the table—his arms, still pinned, are shaking in their bonds—but he takes Steve inside himself anyway.  His head tosses again, desperate... but he’s not asking to stop, not even asking Steve to slow.  It’s impossible to tell around the gag, but Steve sort of thinks Tony might be saying, _“More.”_

Steve sinks in down to his balls, and it feels so damned good he could cry.  He would say he never dreamed this could be, but... that’s not exactly true.  He _has_ dreamed.  Not of _this,_ exactly; in his dreams, Tony is unblindfolded and knows it’s him and comes to him in silk scarves and not much else, mostly.  But of being with Tony, yes, he has dreamed of that.  And sometimes, even in the waking world, it does seem like Tony was looking at him, looking at him and wondering _back..._ But nothing’s ever come of it.  This is the best Steve is going to get, and he’s just low enough to take it, apparently.

Sunk all the way inside of Tony, Steve gives them both a moment to adjust.  Tony’s twisting and arching against the bonds, obviously desperate, low animal noises pouring from his throat.  His dick is leaking even around the little plug in the head of it, and Steve reaches down, smears the moisture around the head with one shaking finger. 

Tony throws his head back and yells, wordlessly, through the gag.  He pleads—it’s _obviously_ pleading, even though Steve can’t make out the words—and Steve pulls his fingers back, even as he wants nothing more than to reach forward and jerk Tony off.  Too much reverence in his hands; they were giving him away.  Instead, he takes Tony by the hips, hitching his fingers under the ropes there, and pulls back, watching Tony’s face to be sure he isn’t hurting the smaller man. 

But no, Tony shows no signs of distress.  It’s the opposite, actually: his mouth is slack around the filthy-looking ring, his shoulders without tension.  Liquid drips from beneath the gag, but there’s a smile pulling at the corners of Tony’s mouth.

Steve starts thrusting, pulling Tony—and also the foot stool, a little bit—down onto his dick, again and again, brisk and none too gentle.  He hasn’t done this often, but he knows you’re supposed to hit the prostate; he also knows, though, that given his size, so long as he’s dragging the mushroom head of his cock back and forth in Tony’s ass, he can trust that he’s going to hit it just fine. 

Judging by the noises Tony is making, he’s right: Tony starts off with little whines, twisting in his bonds and Steve’s hands, and then quickly degrades down to yells, crying out every time Steve pushes in.  Steve glories in it, even as his eyes roll in his head with pleasure from the thrusts, and from the pounding rhythm he’s setting.  Tony gasps and moans, tears leaking out around the blindfold, and then finally, just as Steve clenches and buries himself deep, fingers clenching on the ottoman as he comes, Tony lets sobs rip out around the gag.  “Heekh.  Oh gahh, heekhhh, eeeyi.  Oah.”

Steve is pretty sure that last word was supposed to be “more,” and there was probably a “please” or two in there, too, but he really _can’t_ go anymore; he already came, for one thing, and while he _could_ just wait around to get hard again, the fact that it’ll take about seventy-five seconds would give away his identity pretty thoroughly. 

Instead, he works Tony off with his hand, listening to Tony moan wordlessly beneath him, “heekhh” and “oah” and other noises, noises that sounded even less like words than those two did.  He tries not to squirm guiltily at having Tony’s cock in his hand, even though he would have tripped over his own feet to have this a month ago.  He has a moment of worry—can Tony come around that device in his slit?  Should Steve take the little cock-plug off?  The head of Tony’s cock is deeply purple above the circle of golden metal supporting the device—but as soon as he thinks it, Tony comes, long and intense and drawn out, spilling around the plug in long, protracted oozes, sobbing in gratitude. 

Steve shudders at the sight.  He withdraws right after, maybe a little quicker than he should have, because if he doesn’t, he’s not going to be able to pull out at all.  Instead, he’ll just keep fucking Tony over and over again, watching his length send Tony mindless again, and again, and again. 

 _And that would be bad,_ he reminds himself, heart pounding.

Even so, he can’t quite stop himself from one last horrifically dirty self-indulgence.  He shouldn’t, he _knows_ he shouldn’t.  And it’s disgusting, it really is.  But still... 

His hands are trembling as he eases off the condom.  He almost drops the damn thing, and he looks around but can’t see the trash can, and so before he even knows what he’s doing, he has dropped the used condom on Tony’s stomach, lukewarm and wet, letting his own jizz drizzle out and onto Tony’s skin.  He rubs it with his hand, mixing the pearly drops into the dark trail of hair leading south from Tony’s belly button.  It glistens messily there.

“Heeekkkkh,” Tony moans urgently.  Steve wonders what exactly he’s trying to say, anyway; that damn ring gag makes it almost impossible to understand him.  He moves around Tony, absently dropping his fingers near Tony’s mouth while he thinks about it, trying not to cry at the way Tony eagerly licks his fingers clean, pink tongue poking through the golden ring of the gag. 

He spots a pack of water bottles on one of the bookshelves and grabs one, twisting it open and pressing it to the side of Tony’s cheek to let him know what’s coming.  Tony nods, and Steve pours a dribble through the gag and into his mouth.  He fastens up the buttons of his jeans while he waits for Tony to swallow it down and nod for more. 

They finish about half the bottle.  When Steve has all his buttons done up, he switches to petting Tony’s hair and face in between sips, at least the parts not covered by the blindfold.

Tony’s mouth is trembling around the gag like he’s crying, but Steve doesn’t think it’s from pain.

Tony nuzzles his hand after Steve pours him another mouthful of water; when Steve pats Tony’s cheek, Tony presses into the gesture. It’s lovely—even given that this is the last situation Steve would have imagined, it’s still agonizingly close to perfect—and it’s over too soon.  There’s only so long Steve can justify staying, though, only so long he can stand there listening to Tony’s soft noises of desire.  Eventually, Steve has to leave.

He re-seals the water bottle and tosses it back to the shelf, where it skids down the surface and bumps up against the rest of the pack.  Remembering the rules, Steve makes his way back down the table, picking up the large orange dildo which had been in Tony when he entered the room. 

He presses the dildo to Tony’s hole, watching as the puffy furl of muscle spreads around the wide head of it.  It’s absurd to feel anything like sadness or disappointment in a situation like this one, but Steve does, anyway; a tiny twirl of melancholy as he watches Tony’s hole spread wider and wider for the orange invasion.  Tony isn’t helping; his noises have gone from happy and horny to distressed, “Eeekhh, ohhh, eeeyi, h’ohh—”

The fake cock slides in, and in, finally seating all the way with the false balls pressed against Tony’s perineum.  Tony’s head thrashes from side to side, once and then twice, and then he stills, raising his head.  He’s still wearing the blindfold, but it still gives the eerie impression that he’s looking right at Steve.

“Ay,” he says loudly—and, considering the gag, shockingly clearly. “‘On’ go.  ‘Ay.”

That... that sounded a _lot_ like, “Don’t go; stay.”  But why would Tony be saying that, considering he had no idea who was even here with him?  He can’t still be thirsty, because he shook his head pretty firmly the last time Steve offered the water bottle...

Steve licks his lips, worried, and comes within half a breath of saying Tony’s name before he remembers the _No Talking_ rule.

The door slams open behind him, banging into the wall with a crack.  Steve whirls, seeing fucking _Jared_ framed by the hallway lights.

Jared’s lip curls upward.  “Enough,” he says.  He’s talking to Steve, looking at Steve; he hasn’t even glanced at Tony yet.

Steve spots the other bluetooth piece in Jared’s ear and flushes.  He nods, shortly, and starts walking towards the door.

“Eekkkhh” Tony begs, the last lost consonant dragging out desperately, and suddenly Steve pivots back towards him, stunned to realize knows _exactly_ what that non-word means.

It’s his own damn _name._ Which Tony shouldn’t _know,_ because this is supposed to be _anonymous._

And Tony’s been saying it the _whole fucking time._

It’s almost more than Steve can think about, the idea that Tony _knew_ it was him, _knew_ he was the one using him like that, and—

 _—and wanted him anyway?_  Steve remembers Tony sobbing in happiness as his cock sunk deep inside him and shivers.  His oversensitive cock is pressing against the rough fabric of his jeans, again.

When Steve turns back, he sees Jared looking at him with naked disgust.  “You’ve had your turn,” Jared tells him, eye flicking down to the bulge in Steve’s pants and then back up to his face again.  “He’s mine again, now.  Get out.”

Steve really, really, _really_ hates Jared, in that moment.  He’s pretty sure there are actual Nazis he liked better than Jared.  He’s pretty sure he liked the _Red Skull_ more than he likes Jared.

But Tony is the one who gets to pick, and when Steve comes right down to it, Tony picked Jared, not Steve.  So Steve does the only thing he can think of to do:

He runs, slamming the door behind him like it’ll keep the memory of this mistake at bay.

**Author's Note:**

> Because it's a public use scenario, Steve does witness the end of a Tony/Nat sex scene, and Tony/OC is a background scenario; however, Steve/Tony is the dominant ship of this fic. 
> 
> Rape/non-con warning is an excess of caution, but take care of yourself. I headcanon that a) Tony agreed to this scene to indulge his boyfriend, not because he really wanted it; b) Tony was assuming that the people invited to Play would be people he didn't particularly care about; that the Avengers might be invited is a surprise, and pisses him off a little; c) that Tony would have done just about anything to get a shot at Steve just as Steve would do just about anything to get a shot at Tony, and so this *would* have been consensual if they had asked. 
> 
> Bad BDSM etiquette tag is twofold: number one, don't tie up your lover and leave them alone, and two, don't stage a scene with no way to safeword. Jared is not supposed to be a good boyfriend, here.


End file.
